


I'm Your First Taste of Romance

by Eugara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Case Fic, Dubious Consent, Episode: s12e15 Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell, Established Relationship, Guilty Sam, Humor, Hurt Dean, Light Drama, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Shower Sex, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 08:36:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12931590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugara/pseuds/Eugara
Summary: Season 12."I think you have a piece of siren in your hair."





	I'm Your First Taste of Romance

Sam’s sure there’s a lot that can be said for Wyndmere, North Dakota’s only 24-hour Gas-n-Sip, but as he stands there, dead on his feet and his fingertips slowly going numb in the cold, blue dark of early morning, he can’t think of anything nice at all. It’s freezing outside, just barely past five o’clock, and Sam wouldn’t be standing out in it, hands fruitlessly shoved into his pockets as he watches his brother fiddle with the gas nozzle, if it weren’t for the faint scent of blood still infusing the interior of the Impala. Some of it old blood too. Half sweet, acidic copper and half pungent, festering rust. Familiar, the smell may be, but that doesn’t mean he has to enjoy sitting in it.

‘Wooden Ships’ is playing out of the tinny, outdoor speakers and Dean sings along under his breath as he fills up the car, adding his particular brand of barely off-key baritone to the more dulcet tones of Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. Or maybe just Crosby, Stills, and Nash. Sam can never tell the difference.

A breeze sweeps by, causing Dean to shiver a little in the cool morning air, but surprisingly, it doesn’t appear to interrupt his humming. He’s only wearing a single black flannel over his t-shirt, despite the chill, because Sam had finally convinced him to shove his stinking, blood-soaked jacket back into his bag and zip that fucker up as tight as he possibly could. Well, more ‘begged’ than convinced. At the moment, it’s tucked around the hideous, barbed wire-wrapped baseball bat that Dean had decided to Frankenstein together on a whim a few days back. _That_ particular belonging of his brother’s is currently in an even more disgusting condition than his jacket, given that there are actual _chunks_ of both ghoul and wraith still caught in the spikes. (Although Dean’s experiment with the wraith was uniquely disturbing—as it turns out that the fuckers can still unsettlingly lurch around after their brains are bashed in. Sam had to jam a silver knife through the thing’s chest just to put it out of its misery.)

Dean shivers again, letting out a grateful sigh as the pump clicks off, and Sam’s starting to think that he’d only agreed to lose the jacket because if any gas station attendants had happened to spot the carnage they’d have called the cops themselves. Or the National Guard. And the _last_ thing they friggin’ need is another bumbling branch of law enforcement discovering that the infamous Winchester killers are mysteriously back from the dead. _Again_.

His brother snaps the fuel door closed and rubs at his eyes, clearly ready to head back to the bunker so he can finally sleep in his own bed, when Sam’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He holds a finger up to stop Dean from getting in the car and pulls it out to check who’s contacting him. One new text message, the helpful pop-up informs him—from ‘Frodo’. Sam deliberately schools his breathing and taps open the text.

_Roseau. Minnesota. Three Male Victims. 07/03-30/03. -M._

“Got another case,” is all he says, glancing up to gauge his brother’s interest.

Dean pauses where he is, still halfway out of the Impala. “That was fast.”

Sam shrugs. It isn’t exactly a ‘no’, so he baits the hook a little. “Three men. All in Roseau, Minnesota. All died within the last three weeks.”

Dean lets out a curious sound and steps fully out of the car, shutting the door with a familiar creak of the hinge. “The deaths weird in some way?”

Sam taps on the link Mick had attached and skims over the news report. “Not _overly_ weird,” he hedges. “Gunshot, poisoning, and strangulation.”

“So what makes you think this is our kinda case?”

“It…is,” he finishes lamely. Dean just raises an eyebrow. “C’mon, Dean. The timeline alone is suspicious.”

His brother leans a hip against the side door and wraps his arms over his chest to defend against the low temperature. “Yeah, but it’s ‘desperate housewife who finally snapped’ suspicious,” he says. “Not ‘Mommy, I think the babysitter’s a demon’ suspicious.”

Sam sucks his lips between his teeth, stalling for time as he racks his brain for an explanation. This isn’t the right moment to let Dean know about his deal with the British Men of Letters, not with his adrenaline high from a recent kill and his hackles up from the cold. “I created an algorithm,” is what he finally goes with. And given the blank look Dean gives him in response, it’s a workable excuse. “It’s a pretty simple computer program. I could explain it if you want—”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Dean says impatiently. “Nerd crap. I get it.” He scrapes a hand over his jaw and lets a smile creep in at the edges, frustration temporarily alleviated with the promise of a new hunt. “I’ll bet I can make it to Minnesota in under three hours,” he says, eyes bright.

Sam lets out a low breath, relieved that his secret about the Brits is back-burnered for the moment. “Yeah, sure,” he teases, playing at normal. “If you drive twice the speed limit.”

Dean waggles his eyebrows at him, then ducks back into the driver’s seat, getting the keys in the ignition and loudly revving the engine before Sam even manages to get around the passenger side.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“Could be a succubus,” Sam suggests, preoccupied with giving the news report on his phone a more thorough read. “Or maybe we’re looking at some kind of vengeful spirit?” Their boots mutedly clicking against the hospital tile is the only noise for what seems like miles.

Dean reaches the basement door first and holds it open for him. “Maybe it’s just some lady werewolf who got jilted.”

Sam smiles at the colorful guess, and at his brother’s odd sense of chivalry. “Hearts are all intact,” he says, slipping through the opening and into the lead.

“Alright, whatever,” Dean mutters from behind him. “Lady _witch_ then. Getting back at her exes.”

“I guess it’s possible. We’ll know more once we find out how they died. You’re right though, the perp’s most likely a woman.”

They didn’t bring their suits, still running on what they’d packed for the initial ghoul hunt, so they’re going in as local police instead of FBI. There’s no way Dean could get away with wearing his bloody jacket though, so he’s got his flannel buttoned up and tucked into his jeans, aiming for the barest smidge of professionalism. He’s still supposed to be hanging a half step behind Sam just to be careful.

“You in charge here?” Sam asks as they step into the morgue proper.

The coroner—or, who Sam _assumes_ is the coroner—is slouched casually backwards on a rolling chair, but he scrabbles to his feet pretty quickly at their entrance. The guy’s surprisingly handsome, considering his job. Asian. Late-twenties. He’s a little under average height, but makes up for it by being pretty solidly built, and by sporting a sharp jaw and a trendy haircut.

“I’m Detective Hetfield,” Sam says, flashing the appropriate badge. “This is my partner, Detective Ulrich. We’re here to see the bodies for the Larsen, Young, and Schultz cases.”

The coroner fiddles with something around his neck for a bit, then pulls it out. Idle habit, probably. Sam catches a glimpse of a shark tooth strung on a leather thong before he tucks it away again. “The police are checking out the same bodies again?” he asks, not overly concerned. “Did your other guys not get enough info or something?”

“It’s a different department,” Sam explains for the hundredth time in his life. “We’re required by law to conduct our own investigation. Redundant, yes, but better safe than sorry.”

“You know how management gets if you don’t cross all the ‘t’s,” Dean adds from behind his shoulder, risking blowing their cover just so he can get a word in. “And _god forbid_ you forget to dot an ‘i’.”

The coroner lets out a casual huff. “Yeah, okay, man. No skin off my nose.” He strolls over to the relevant drawers, pulling out the victims one-by-one. “You can, like, check the charts for yourselves if you want to know more specific deets. But basically,” he says, pointing a finger at each appropriate corpse. “Gunshot to the head. Overdose on sleeping pills. Hung himself from a ceiling fan.”

Dean grazes his eyes over Young’s chart for a moment. “This says ‘poisoning’. Pretty loose work, if you ask me.”

“Whatever, man,” the kid says a little defensively. “It’s technically accurate.”

Sam skips over the unnecessary bickering, focusing instead on the pertinent information. “So, you’re telling me all these cases are…?”

“Suicide,” the coroner finishes for him. “Yup. Every single one. It’s the damnedest thing.” He bounces on the balls of his feet for a bit, probably more out of boredom than anything else, then glances up to meet their eyes with a surreptitious look of his own. “Wanna hear something even weirder? They’re all _murder_ -suicides.”

“All of them?” Dean asks gravely.

“Mm-hmm,” he concurs, nonchalant as all get-out for someone who works with the dead all day long. “That guy over there? He murdered his wife before shooting himself. And that guy? Killed both of his sisters. This dude offed his freaking _grandma_ before stringing himself up.”

Fucking _great_. Sam hooks the chart he was messing with back onto Schultz’s gurney and tosses the guy a tight smile. “Thank you. I think we’ve got what we need.” The coroner startles a bit, probably surprised by the abrupt turnaround, but Sam’s already heading for the door, clipped and professional, and exits with Dean close on his heels.

Sam waits until they’re actually in the elevator before putting words to what they’re both thinking. “ _All_ female relatives?” he asks under his breath, still a little wary about being overheard.

Dean brings a hand up to his collar and fumbles at his buttons until he can tug his neck free. “It’s a siren. No question.”

“But why are the men killing themselves afterwards?”

“I don’t know, man,” his brother says distractedly. He finally gets his shirt undone and yanks it out of his waistband. “Guilt?”

Sam chews at the inside of his cheek. “All of them? Without exception?”

Dean slips one hand into his front pocket, fishing for his keys. “Maybe the siren’s nuts,” he offers.

The doors ding and then separate.

“I guess anything’s possible,” Sam says skeptically, stepping into the lobby.

“…Or she’s covering her tracks,” Dean tosses out a minute later as they pass through the main doors of the hospital and out into the parking lot. “Maybe the one we dealt with before was the exception and Black Widowing the victims is the norm for these bitches. Who knows?”

Sam frowns a little at the mention of their last siren encounter. It was…awkward for the both of them, to say the least, and he doesn’t remember them ever talking about that case again once it was in their rearview. Dean doesn’t seem hesitant about it at the moment though, his gait loose and easy, left arm swinging at his side like he thinks he’s a member of the Rat Pack. Sam glances back to the rows of cars gleaming in the morning sun and wonders if that means something. Then he wonders if they’re any healthier now. _Then_ he wonders how he’d even begin to tell.

“ _Sammy_ ,” Dean says obnoxiously, having extricated the keys from his jeans and now jangling them in his ear. “You awake? Any ideas?”

Sam jerks away from the annoying sound and goes with the most obvious statement. “We need to be on the lookout for attractive women.”

“I always am, baby,” his brother says with a sleazy grin.

“I’m serious, Dean. And men too, given what happened last time.”

Dean studies his face for a minute, reading between the lines. “You can’t think we’ve met her already. We only got into town half an hour ago.”

He shrugs, non-committal.

And his brother seems to catch on pretty quick because he schools his expression back to zero. “Right,” he agrees. “The coroner wasn’t exactly a bad-looking dude.”

Sam lets out an amused breath. “Should I be jealous?”

“Man, now _I’m_ being serious here.”

Sam casually bumps against his brother’s arm as an apology. “I don’t think so,” he says eventually. “He didn’t seem…attractive.”

Dean stops as they come up to the Impala, resting his crossed wrists against the roof and giving Sam a long stare. “C’mon, Sammy,” he says, “the kid looked like an Abercrombie model.”

Sam chuckles in realization and matches his brother’s posture. “No, I mean _attractive_ ,” he clarifies. “Enticing. Last time, the siren cozied up to you right away. If this one is targeting us, she’s gonna do her best to be alluring. Or overly friendly at the very least. To try and cater to our preferences.”

“And if she isn’t targeting us?”

Sam pulls in a long breath and then twists his head to the side, letting a defeated sigh out over the rest of the parking lot. “Then we hope like hell we manage to figure this thing out before her next victim kills anyone.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

They’d stopped by a minimart for a quick (disgusting) breakfast—microwaved burritos for the both of them, because there wasn’t anything even _remotely_ healthy on the minimally stocked shelves—and Sam is still trying to discreetly scrape the taste off his tongue as they stroll into Roseau’s local police station.

The station itself seems a little understaffed too, or maybe a town this size just doesn’t need that much to keep their bases covered. The grumpy septuagenarian slumped behind the front desk is the only face in sight, and she’s stolidly ignoring them in favor of the colorful, glossy magazines spread out across her desk. She is forced to acknowledge them somewhat once they step a little closer, but the frizzy beehive of gray hair piled haphazardly on top of her head, thick, coke-bottle glasses, and thin frown that practically reaches the floor don’t make her seem any more approachable.

“What?’ she asks bluntly, more of a nasal bark than anything else.

“Um,” Sam starts cordially, “Miss…?”

“Carmichael,” she says, squinting at him from behind her glasses. “ _Mrs_. Carmichael.”

“Mrs. Carmichael,” he repeats respectfully. “We were wondering if we could have a word with the sheriff.”

Mrs. Carmichael sizes them both up for another beat, then goes back to her magazines. “No,” she says dismissively.

“Excuse me?” Dean asks, stalking forward to get right in her face.

“No one gets in to see the sheriff unless they’ve got a damn good reason.”

“We’re detectives from the Minneapolis P.D.,” Dean says threateningly. “Here to discuss your town’s latest _murder spree_ , and if the sheriff ain’t out here in five minutes, I’m gonna be on the horn to my bosses telling them not to bother the next time your Podunk little asses need some help from an actual _city_.”

She grudgingly looks up to meet his brother’s eyes, probably scrutinizing how serious he is about his threat, then finally says, “You go do that,” and goes back to her reading.

Dean boggles for a bit, completely stunned by the outcome of the conversation. “What?” he asks the air, and Sam steps in to take over.

“Mrs. Carmichael,” he tries again, as charmingly polite as he’s capable of being, “the sheriff is absolutely going to want to meet with us. I can promise you that. And if it turns out that he doesn’t, then we’ll leave, no questions asked. Alright?”

Mrs. Carmichael pulls in a long, beleaguered breath. “Fine,” she eventually drones, then dramatically reaches a hand out to press an intercom button on her desk. “I’ve buzzed the sheriff. _She_ should be right out.”

Sam ducks his head a little in chagrin. “Thank you,” he says, trying to shove any bite of irritation way down deep. Then he steps away with his brother to wait.

“Well, at least we know it isn’t _her_ ,” Dean jokes under his breath, the minute they’re far enough away that the clerk can’t overhear.

“Don’t be an ass.” Then Sam smirks a little, teasing gleam in his eye as he thinks back on the time Dean had gambled all his years away against that he-witch. “Plus, you should have some sympathy,” he says. “ _You_ probably remember being that old.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Dean tosses right back at him.

“Gentlemen!” a chipper, feminine voice calls out from the main office. “What can I do ya for?”

Sam turns around to see an energetic woman all in tan quickly making her way toward them. “…Sheriff?” he asks.

“Sheriff Olson,” she replies, vigorously shaking each of their hands in turn. “Pleased to meet ya.” She’s maybe slightly older than Dean, but thin as a whip, with laugh lines around her mouth and dark brown hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck.

Dean doesn’t seem to be charmed. “We’re from the Minneapolis P.D.,” he repeats, then jerks his head toward Sam. “Detectives Hetfield and Ulrich.”

“Oh, yeah. Of course,” Olson jumps in, not even letting him finish. “You must be here about the—” she glances around awkwardly, “…the _unpleasantness_.”

Sam can’t help but smile a little at the unexpected welcome. The sheriff’s got _textbook_ Minnesota Nice running through her blood. She reminds him a little bit of Donna, he thinks. Or maybe more Frances McDormand from the original Fargo. Sam blinks away his exhaustion and lets his thoughts drift for a second. He’s been meaning to finally catch up with the TV version if they ever get some downtime again.

“Well, come on,” Olson says warmly. “No point standin’ around out here, gobbling like a flock of turkeys. My office is back this way.”

Dean gives one last look to the clerk, probably trying to rub it in her face or something, but the old lady’s focused entirely back on her stack of magazines as they walk by.

“It’s ‘rafter’ actually,” Sam mentions to Sheriff Olson they follow her through the bullpen. “For turkeys.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but the sheriff looks just about bowled over. “Is that right?” she asks enthusiastically. “Well, get outta town.”

Her office is just about as cozy as Sam expected, and has about a thousand times more pictures of wolves in various colors and styles than he could have ever possibly guessed.

“What’s with the décor?” Dean asks, eyeballing a particularly garish black velvet painting of a wolf wearing a Native American headdress.

“I’m one-sixteenth Sioux,” Olson announces proudly. “Wolves are my spirit animal. I found that out from a lady at a fair once.” Then she gestures for them both to sit as Sam fights back an amused smile.

“Look,” the sheriff sighs, a little more serious as she settles down into her desk chair, “I’m sorry if you boys had a rude reception. That’s just Mrs. Carmichael. We love her, the old bird.” Olson smiles fondly, leaning to the left like she could catch the clerk’s eye around the open door if she tried. “It’s just…things don’t tend to _happen_ here in Roseau,” she says, subdued. “Not things like this.”

“Well, welcome to the rest of the world,” Dean says gruffly. Sam’s a little surprised by his brother’s reaction—Dean’s usually respectful as all get-out to women on the force—but he figures this siren thing’s probably got him suspicious of everyone. It’s smarter actually, the way he’s playing it, and Sam remembers to close himself off a little too. There’s no reason for him to be outright rude though.

“We’d like to ask you some questions,” he says, a little softer.

“Sure,” she says. “But ain’t the victims’ families a better source?”

“Well they would be, Sheriff,” Dean patronizes, “but given the… _unpleasantness_ , there ain’t really anyone else left to ask.”

“Ah, yeah,” Olson immediately concedes. “Good point.”

Sam clears his throat and decides to start them off. “Do you know if the victims had anything in common?”

“Not more so’n anyone else, a town this size,” she says guilelessly. “Bet you could find some sorta commonality between just about everyone.”

Dean’s frowning at her desk though. More specifically, he’s frowning at a framed picture on her desk of what looks to be some kind of large party. “Is this them?” his brother asks.

“Well, talk about a coinkydink,” the sheriff chirps. “Sure is.” She flips the photo around so they can all see it better, pointing each of the men out. “That’s Jackson Young, Harry Larsen, and there’s little Levi Schultz, right in the back there.”

They’re all wearing loose, matching button-ups. Yellow with red piping, and the phrase _‘The Bowling Stones’_ embroidered over the back in a large, curling script. “All three victims were on the same bowling team,” Sam says, plucking the frame from her fingers. “That’s a pretty big something in common.” He passes the photo to his brother.

“And you didn’t think that was important enough to mention?” Dean asks tensely.

Olson blinks at them, uncertain. “It’s a small town, Detective. _I’m_ at half those league games myself. And I don’t even like to bowl,” she adds teasingly, trying to bring the mood back up.

“Was there anyone else on their team?” Dean asks, his face like granite.

“Ah, no. Not that I can recall.” The sheriff taps a finger to her lips as she thinks about it. “I can getcha a list, though, of all the other bowlers in the league.”

Sam has a sinking suspicion that isn’t gonna be exactly helpful. “And how many people in this town attend league nights?” he asks warily.

Olson ponders the question for a bit. “Well near about almost everyone, I suppose,” she says.

“Fan-freaking-tastic,” Dean grumbles under his breath. He scrapes a hand over his face and lets out a sigh, then focuses back on the sheriff. “But, yeah. We’ll take the list.”

“Well okey-dokey, then,” she says brightly. “I’ll be back in a jiff with those names.”

Sam waits for her to leave the office, then counts to twenty before feeling safe enough to talk. “What are we gonna do with a list of almost everyone in the whole town?”

Dean stretches his arms out until his back cracks. “Well, as far as we know, our siren has been preying on dudes for three weeks. If we can compare our list to some sort of—I don’t know— _census_ or something, then maybe we can figure out who rolled into town right about the same time.”

“Housing records,” Sam says assuredly. “A place this small has gotta have them somewhere. The library maybe.” Dean grunts in assent and rubs his fingers over his eyes. “But, Dean,” Sam says, shifting in his seat to make sure they’re alone, “you know we could just ask Sheriff Olson who’s new here.”

“Yeah, and have her conveniently forget some more important information?” Dean says pointedly, giving him a skeptical look. “I trust her about as far as I can throw her. Actually—less than that. She looks pretty light.”

Sam hums thoughtfully and leans back in his chair. “So I guess we’re gonna be spending the rest of the day cross-checking these lists in the library,” he says, not too perturbed by the way this case is turning out so far.

Dean lets out a defeated groan beside him and drops his head into his hands.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sam blearily blinks awake at the sound of the alarm, then shuts it off before Dean can bitch at him about it. It’s confusing for a moment, the large, painted trees in his peripheral vision, until he remembers that they’d checked into the _Evergreen Motel_ yesterday. They’re not even well-painted trees, Sam mentally gripes. They look like elementary school children had done them. Or maybe whoever owns this place had made their own kids slap them up to keep down costs. Whatever the case, he’s pretty sure he hates them.

They’d both conked out almost immediately last night, coming up on 72 hours without sleep the way they were. Separate beds and everything. Although much of that had to do with the fact that neither of them had showered in three days. Sam’s still wearing the same outfit as he was yesterday, and the day before, _and_ the one before. His jeans are uncomfortably stiff when he manages to sit up, rough against his skin wherever they crease, and he really wishes he’d had the bright idea of taking them off before he’d gone to bed. Dean had actually stripped down completely, he finds, glancing over to take in his still softly snoring brother—it’s an extreme rarity for evenings without sex, but he might’ve been trying to extend the wearability of the only outfit he’d brought for as long as possible. Sam glances longingly at the bathroom door and then decides on a shower before anything else. Dean can go second. It’s what he gets for sleeping in.

And Sam finally feels much more human after he’s gotten himself clean. He shakes off the remaining droplets from the ends of his hair and slings one of the motel’s threadbare towels around his waist. He may not be completely dry, but a slightly damp undershirt is gonna be nothing compared to the dried sweat he’d been wrapped in the last few days. Plus, he should really make sure Dean’s up.

“Hey, sexy,” Dean tosses up at him from where he’s sitting nude at the edge of the bed, pulling his sweat-stiff socks back on.

Sam can’t help the pleased twitch of his lips, despite the fact that he knows his brother meant it in an obnoxious asshole kind of way. But the fuzzy feeling fades once he belatedly realizes that Dean is getting dressed. “Dude, we _totally_ have time for you to clean up,” Sam says. Well—hints, really. Very _strongly_ hints.

“No can do, Sammy,” Dean says blithely. “Need to get back to the housing records as soon as the library opens. The quicker we figure out who we’re looking for, the quicker we can gank her ass before she gets another sucker under her sway.”

He watches Dean grab for the rest of his crumpled clothes and resigns himself to another day of trying to breathe through his mouth. Thankfully, _Sam_ had the foresight to bring a spare pair of boxer-briefs, socks, and an extra t-shirt, just in case of emergencies. Dean, on the other hand. Well, Dean…

Sam lets out an unnerved sigh as he watches his brother flip his dirty boxers inside-out and then slip them on again—for the fourth day in a row. It’s not his fault, really. They’d only planned to go on one ghoul hunt. It was in Kansas, even, not more than a few hours away from the bunker. They’d packed just enough for a quick, milk-run of a case and then Mick had blown up Sam’s phone before they’d even cleared the cemetery, shooting them off to North Dakota. They hadn’t even had time to wipe off the grave dirt. Sam had spent nine hours in a car with Dean, and Dean’s ghoul-spattered jacket, before he’d gotten a whiff of fresh air. And then he’d had to do it _again_ after Dean wanted to see if his stupid bat would work on a wraith too.

He’s halfway to suggesting that they could just _buy_ Dean some new clothes at the closest Walmart or something, when his brother catches his eye with an impatient look.

“Get a move on, tiger,” he says insistently. “Your ass is checking out the police station today. See if you can’t find anything in the records room. Maybe these stiffs weren’t the only boy toys she’s had in town.”

“Yeah,” Sam caves way too easily. “Okay.” But it’s only because it’s almost impossible to argue with Dean when he’s showing that much skin.

He gets fully dressed again, and is shoving his old clothes back into his bag, when he almost sets his backpack down right on Dean’s aforementioned bat, sitting smack-dab in the center of the motel table and practically dripping onto the wood.

“Dude, no,” he states, wincing in distaste. “You cannot keep that disgusting thing out in the open like this.”

“Yes, dear,” Dean says mockingly, and then ignores him completely by just picking the thing up and moving it across the room to the end table near his bed.

“If a maid sees that, she’s gonna flip, asshole.”

“I’m gonna put up the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign, Sam. I’m not an idiot.”

Sam rubs an annoyed hand over the back of his head. Maybe a day apart is actually gonna be a good thing. “Look,” he says, hoping to change the subject if it’ll stop them from snapping at each other, “if you _coincidentally_ happen to run into the coroner again…” he trails off, trying to get his point across with his eyebrows.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says. “No such thing as happenstance.” He glances up from checking over his gun, then back down again with a curtailed smirk. “Thought you didn’t think it was him.”

“I’m playing it safe,” he says flatly.

Dean’s smirk broadens into an actual smile. “Fair enough.” He tucks his Colt into the back of his jeans and then hoists himself up to standing. “And let’s not get too chummy with Sheriff Howdy-do, either, okay?”

“Dean, she’s just friendly.”

His brother does a cursory scan of the room, most of his attention on making sure that all their weapons are in the appropriate places. Which, right now, apparently means on Dean’s bed and not the floor. “You said it yourself, man,” he reminds him. “That might be exactly what the siren is aiming for.”

Sam runs a hand over his mouth in reluctant agreement. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s just—she didn’t seem _stunning_ , y’know?”

“No need to be a dick, Sammy.”

He lets out a light scoff. “You know what I mean.”

“Just don’t share any drinks, alright?” Dean says, finally ready to head out. “That’s how—” He pauses for a second, self-conscious, and then seems to change his mind. “Just…don’t do it.”

Sam frowns at the odd advice, then lets it go, tailing his brother to the door. “Dean, you know even if we do find out who the siren is today, we still need to get our hands on a bronze knife _and_ an affected victim.”

“One problem at a time, Sam,” his brother says wearily. He pats down his pockets, making sure he’s got everything he needs. “You want me to drop you?”

“Nah, I’ll walk. It’s only a couple minutes.”

“Alright,” Dean says, planting a quick one on him on his way out. “Good luck.”

“You smell like a slaughterhouse,” Sam responds, sarcastically cheerful—waving his brother off as he disappears around the corner of the motel and out to the parking lot.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“What do you mean Sheriff Olson isn’t here?” Sam asks.

Mrs. Carmichael just gives him a flat stare, looking like she’d rather be on vacation too. “She called out sick for the week.”

He furrows his brow in suspicion. “Is the sheriff allowed to do that?”

“I dunno,” she sighs, clearly annoyed with him, “you’re asking me?”

Sam does everything he can to try and keep his grip on his polite tone. “Well, the sheriff promised me that I’d be able to look over the police records for the town today. Is that gonna be a problem?”

Mrs. Carmichael lets out such a put-upon sigh that Sam almost thinks she’s stopped breathing for a minute. “ _Fine_ ,” she says eventually, then makes a big, giant deal about getting out of her chair. “The records room is in the back. I’ll show you.”

“Thank you,” he says.

The clerk just lets out a derisive noise.

Sam allows himself to silently roll his eyes as he follows her further into the station.

“Here it is,” she says finally, shooing him through a plain door without much fanfare. There are a few boxes lining the room’s sparse bookshelves, but this can’t be the station’s entire collection. “The rest are in the back,” Mrs. Carmichael says, clearly reading his face. “You’re not allowed in without the code. I’ll bring them here.”

“You sure you don’t need help?” Sam offers.

She just scoffs as she turns away from him, slowly making her way down to wherever the rest of the records are kept.

Sam lets out a long breath and turns to the task at hand, not entirely ungrateful that’s he’s alone. At least he can get started with whatever boxes are already here.

He’s halfway through _April 1973-December 1973_ when his phone starts to vibrate. **_D_** blinks up at him from his screen and he swipes to answer the call.

“Hey, man. How’s it going on your end? ‘Cause mine is just freaking delightful.”

_“Sammy, c——hear me?”_

“Dude, are you in the microfiche basement?” he asks casually, switching his phone to his shoulder as he continues to card through the records in front of him. “The reception’s terrible.”

_“Sammy, it’s –——–al.”_

“What?”

 _“The –—rk,”_ Dean says, static fuzzing in and out. _“I checked the——sing—ecords—pparently she———mov—ere three weeks ago.”_

“Dee, you’re breaking up. I can’t hear you. I’ll meet you back at the motel room, okay?”

 _“—he **clerk** , Sam,”_ Dean enunciates.

And then a sharp burst of pain explodes at the back of his skull and everything goes black…

When Sam blearily blinks his eyes open again, a man is hovering over him. Smiling down at him.

He’s tall, with brown hair and clear eyes, and he’s the most beautiful person Sam’s seen in his entire life. He loves him. He can feel it swelling in his chest. He’s _in_ love with him, he knows that without a shadow of a doubt. He would do anything for this man, anything he could possibly ask, and Sam doesn’t even know his name.

“Who are you?” Sam breathes out, every fiber of his being screaming out to touch him. To discover everything about him.

The love of his life grins. “You’ve been calling me ‘Mrs. Carmichael’,” he answers warmly.

And that’s right. Of course. The siren. Sam remembers. Dean had warned him on the phone. She’d been masquerading as the police clerk all along, and then she’d ambushed him in the records room and now she’s— _he’s_ Sam’s.

“Hey, Detective Hetfield,” he says firmly. “I need you to do something for me.”

“It’s Sam,” Sam corrects him, desperate to hear his real name from Carmichael’s lips. “And _yes_ , anything.”

“Sam,” Carmichael repeats fondly. “The code for all the station doors is 2162. I need you to get me a men’s uniform from the locker room and a bottle of chloroform from the armory. Do you understand?” Sam nods ardently. Carmichael smiles again at his obedience. “And then,” he says, “we’re going back to your motel room.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“Sammy?” Dean shouts, busting in through the door. He relaxes slightly once he spots Sam sitting on his own bed, then jogs over until he’s close enough to pat him down, making sure he’s alright. “I went to the station, but they said you’d already left. You okay?”

“I’m fine, Dean,” he says.

“The clerk,” Dean tells him again. “The clerk’s the siren. The old bag behind the desk.”

Sam has to violently bite back a white-hot flare of rage at how Dean’s talking about the love of his life, but he takes a deep breath and manages to wrangle his anger back down. “Good to know,” he says smoothly. “Now we can get the drop on her.”

His brother finally looks like he’s calmed down too. “At least we’re done with the research bit,” he says, standing back up and making his way to the other bed. “Now we’ve just gotta find ourselves a bronze dagger, and I’ve got no fucking clue where to look for one in a one-horse town like this.”

Sam gets up silently and steps in between Dean and the wall as he continues talking.

“Plus, dude, it’s like thirty degrees outside. I don’t care how much you bitch, I’m putting on my damn jacket.” He scrounges around for his bag before he realizes he’d left it under his bed. “I’ll just stay in here or something,” he mutters, a little lower, then gradually seems to realize that he’s not getting any response back. “Sammy?” he asks.

Sam just tilts his head back behind his brother’s shoulder, gesturing silently.

Dean frowns at him, then turns around to come face-to-face with Carmichael, seizing the moment to slip out from behind the bathroom door. “Who the fuck are you?” Dean spits, immediately reaching for his gun, but Sam’s faster. He’s got his Colt unloaded and out of the way and the chloroform-soaked rag up to his mouth before he can blink.

“Sam, what?” Dean barks, his anger muffled by the cloth. He struggles violently against his iron hold for a while, getting a few painful hits in, but Sam doesn’t flinch. Or relent. Not with Carmichael counting on him. And then his brother slowly, gradually slumps heavy into his arms. Dead weight and completely out.

Dean doesn’t come awake again until Carmichael slaps him sharp across the face. He wanted to be the one in control of the situation. He’d mentioned it earlier. It’s why Dean is stripped down to his t-shirt and trussed up around one of the motel chairs, his arms locked behind his back with a pair of their own handcuffs.

“Morning,” he says crisply, standing up again and making his way back to Sam.

Dean just groans, one eye squinting open before the other. “Oh, great,” he says roughly. “Still a nightmare.” He tests his restraints a bit, then lets out a sigh once he hears the clink of metal. “So you must be the belly-crawler we’ve been looking for,” he snipes at Carmichael. “Can’t say this look is much of a step-up from the last. You should work on that.”

Carmichael doesn’t take the bait. He simply grants Dean a cold smile. “I look like this because of your partner,” he explains calmly. “He’s mine now.” Sam’s heart does a little flip at the possessive nature of his words, but he keeps his expression neutral. Just like Carmichael had asked him to. “Are you surprised?” he taunts, leaning closer to his brother to catch every bit of emotion in his face. But he seems disappointed by Dean’s reaction.

“We’ve actually done this song and dance before,” Dean replies from his chair, thoroughly unimpressed. “Only in reverse. Figures we’d end up here again. ‘What Sam really wants is _me_ , yadda yadda, yadda’. You’re a little late to the party, man.”

“No. Not you,” Carmichael spits, backing away again. “A _better_ you. A you who can treat Sam like he deserves. Isn’t that right, baby?” He reaches out to stroke over his spine and Sam trembles at the touch. “I was more surprised than anyone that I ended up like…this. But then I understood,” he says sympathetically, brushing a hand down his cheek. “Sam needs someone to take care of him. To tell him how special he is. How loved he is.” Carmichael presses in closer, leaving a cluster of chaste kisses against his temple. “To touch him the way he needs to be touched.”

“So what was with the Bea Arthur front?” Dean interrupts. His voice sounds a little tighter than before.

“Officer Gerald in Evidence,” he explains succinctly. “Apparently he misses his late wife. It worked as a handy disguise once I decided to stay in town for a while.”

Dean swallows back his obvious discomfort as he attempts to seem calm. “I guess I’m just surprised anyone would go for you at all,” he says snidely. “No matter what you look like.”

Carmichael flinches at the insult, but continues on. “You have no idea how hard it was to maintain my image once I’d picked your partner as a target,” he says. “It was almost impossible. But I knew I had to do it. I knew you were _hunters_. The two of you couldn’t be more obvious, traipsing in there with your bullshit story about being cops.” His hands clench into fists at his sides and Sam longs to comfort him, but he doesn’t want to interrupt. This is important to Carmichael. “You can’t even imagine the agony. It felt like my skin was splitting apart, atom by atom.” He pulls in a short, deep breath, then exhales serenely, finished with reliving the pain. “Made me a little cranky,” he adds, playful. “But it was worth it.”

He extends a graceful hand out, beckoning, and Sam knows that this is finally his cue. He swoops into the loving gesture, wrapping Carmichael up in his arms. “It was worth it for this one,” Carmichael repeats, pure tenderness in his voice. “Isn’t he perfect?” He pets his hands over Sam’s face. The back of his neck. Sam moans and closes his eyes, melting bonelessly into his ministrations. “So strong and devoted,” he continues proudly. “So utterly devoted. Who knew one person could _feel_ this deeply?” Carmichael tilts his head to the side a little, his eyes getting distant. “I’ve only met one other man who loved me this much before,” he says, reminiscing. “He murdered his children for me. Triplets.” Dean lurches back in his bonds, sickened, but Sam just fights back a low growl, jealousy and resentment fighting for dominance in the pit of his stomach. He can do better than that. He can love Carmichael so much more. He’ll prove it.

Carmichael chuckles at Sam’s clear envy, pleased. “My lovers have done so much to prove their devotion to me over the years,” he says to Dean. “Yet, I think Sam might put them all to shame. Isn’t it romantic?”

“Yeah,” Dean says sarcastically, “ _real_ romantic. Making all your other saps bite the big one. Never met a siren who did that before. You some kinda sicko or what?”

“It’s called self-preservation, honey. If there’s no survivors, they can’t start to question why they did what they did after I’m gone. No one can connect the dots and start comparing notes about their recent new girlfriends. My way is easier.”

Dean narrows his eyes down to slits, apparently having given up on keeping his cool. “And then you’ll do it to Sam.”

Carmichael looks at Dean like he’s just dribbled on his shirt. “If I asked him, he’d want to,” he explains simply. And Sam immediately nods, needing Carmichael to know how willing he’d be to do _anything_ for him. Carmichael trails a finger down his face, smiling in pride, before turning back to Dean. “And then my little hunter problem will just, _poof_ , go away,” he says with a illustrative flick of his wrist.

“So you make Sam kill me, and then himself?” Dean taunts lowly, jerking against the handcuffs. “That’s it? Sounds kinda boring to me.”

Carmichael just laughs, long and clear. It’s the most beautiful sound Sam’s ever heard. “Boring?” he echoes. “Yes, maybe when I thought you two were just hunting partners. But imagine my surprise when Sam here started talking about how much you mean— _meant_ to each other,” he corrects himself pointedly, making sure to hit the past tense. “He’s told me so much about you.”

Dean swallows hard, looking a little less even now. “Doesn’t really sound like him.”

“Guess he just loves me more than he ever loved you,” Carmichael says smugly.

“Whatever you gotta tell yourself, bitch.”

Sam angrily starts forward, planning on teaching Dean a physical lesson in respect, but Carmichael sticks a hand out to stop him. “Tell your partner how much you love me,” he says coolly.

“I love you,” Sam repeats fervently. He twists around, forgetting his brother entirely as he curves down to dote on the only person in the room who matters. “I love you.”

“More than him?” Carmichael asks. He isn’t paying much attention to Sam, keeping his eyes fixed on Dean over his shoulder, but that’s okay.

“ _So_ much more,” Sam says, pressing tiny kisses to the base of Carmichael’s throat, trying to get his focus back on _him_.

“Would you do anything for me?”

“Yes,” he breathes, desperate for Carmichael to believe him. “Of course I would. _Anything_.”

Carmichael finally bestows him with a glance, gently gripping his face between his hands and smiling softly. “Would you kill him for me?”

Sam leans into his touch, trying to soak up as much of it as he can. “Yes,” he says honestly.

“Would you torture him? Hurt him until he bleeds? …Do you think you could make him cry before he dies?”

Sam nods vigorously, more intent with each successive question, so eager to please. “Yes. Yes, I could,” he promises. “Anything you want.”

“Do it.”

Carmichael releases him with expectation in his eyes and Sam swears to himself that he won’t fail. He’s on a mission now, ignoring his brother’s background pleas of, _“Sam. Sammy, hey. C’mon, it’s me.”_ He’ll need a blade. That’s the most important thing. Sam glances down to where Dean had strewn their weapons out on his bed earlier, each of them lying out ripe for the picking. His eyes catch on the demon-killing knife. They use it the most and they keep it the sharpest. It’s perfect.

Sam sweeps it into his right hand, fitting familiar and comforting into his palm. Like an extension of his own arm. He can do this. He won’t let Carmichael down. No matter what it takes.

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean tries one more time, gruff and commanding. But it doesn’t work. Sam doesn’t care about listening to Dean anymore, not when Carmichael is counting on him.

He tilts the knife back and forth shallowly, letting the light glint off the blade, and contemplates where to cut his brother first. His neck seems like an obvious choice, but it’s the usual go-to for any baddie with something sharp, and Sam knows that Dean’s been through that before without much of a fuss. He mentally checks it off the list and moves onto other possible areas. Eyes are notoriously delicate, but if Sam damages them too…enthusiastically, they might not even be able to tell if he’s crying. He keeps searching. Scarring Dean’s face permanently would definitely upset him, but he doubts it could actually make him shed a tear. No. Sam’s best bet is to stick to _sensitive_ areas. Luckily, he knows exactly where those are on his brother. Intimately.

He aims the point of the blade directly at Dean’s areola, no need to even guess the right spot though his shirt, then digs in and slowly _twists_. His brother flinches at the assault, his jaw going tight through the pain, but he doesn’t let out so much as a whimper. A bloodstain quickly spreads out over Dean’s chest, moisture soaking the dark fabric. His expression remains as stoic as ever.

Sam should have expected something like this, and he can feel his certainty start to falter a little. “Carmichael,” he says tentatively, “Dean is—he’s strong. He’s been tortured before. I’m not sure how quickly you want me do this. I can try harder.”

“It’s fine, Sam,” Carmichael says soothingly. “There’s no rush. In fact, I’ve got all the time in the world to watch this.”

And he feels his chest swell with warmth, bolstered by his love’s belief in him. Sam advances on Dean again, scanning his memories for something a little more creative. He slips the knife up under his brother’s t-shirt sleeve and rests the tip in the hollow of his underarm for a while, just until Dean’s used to it.

His brother raises an eyebrow at him after a few seconds. “Seriously?” he asks dryly.

And then Sam slices down hard and deep.

Dean jerks forward in his bonds, trying to twist away from the knife. “ _Jesus_ —” he gasps, a choked-off hiss, but he takes a few deep breaths and gets himself under control again. It isn’t enough pain to crack him.

Sam has to try harder. He knows Dean has broken before. He knows he can do this. Only, he doesn’t have thirty years. Sam glances down at his brother’s lap, at where Dean’s dick is pressed against his fly. That’s Sam’s best chance for a reaction. He flicks his gaze to Dean’s face, to see if he can read any fear in his brother’s eyes, but Dean isn’t even looking at him. He’s glaring over Sam’s shoulder at Carmichael, gaze unblinking and steady as he silently promises murder.

Sam swallows nervously at the concept of failing, but he has to try anyway. He gets down to his knees, one hand reaching for his brother’s fly, when Dean starts to shake.

“Whatever you do, Sammy,” Dean whimpers, quiet and terrified. “ _Please_.” He finally glances up to meet his eyes, chin quivering as he begs. “Not my wrists, man. Don’t touch my wrists.”

Sam pauses, his left hand hovering over his brother’s zipper. “Why?” he asks suspiciously.

“Alastair used to, in Hell. I don’t like—” Dean shakes his head, voice trembling with fear. “Please, Sam. If you have to do this, I understand. Just—anywhere but there.”

Sam doesn’t remember Dean ever mentioning anything about his wrists. Or ever being sensitive about being touched there. But Dean _is_ an emotional coward. Sam’s sure there’s plenty of trauma from his time in Hell that he would never bring up under normal circumstances. Sam’s eyebrows draw down in contemplation as he hesitates. If it doesn’t work, he can always come right back to this spot afterwards.

“ _Sam_ ,” Carmichael orders firmly, “his wrists.”

“He might be lying.”

“I don’t think he is.”

“Shit, Sammy,” Dean pants, struggling against his restraints. “Don’t. Not there. _Please_.”

Sam gets back to his feet and stalks around behind his brother, examining where his arms are handcuffed together. There’s so much pale skin stretched between the black of his t-shirt sleeves and the rings of glinting metal. Sam leans in a little closer and considers where to cut. He could go for maximum nerve pain, long vertical slices, slow and deep, but he doesn’t want Dean to bleed out before he makes him cry. It’s the same reason he hasn’t been lopping bits off. He has to make him cry first or Carmichael will be disappointed. And Sam would rather die a thousand times than ever disappoint Carmichael.

He decides to start shallow, to test if Dean really is afraid, or if this is just one of his brother’s ploys. Sam places the blade along unmarked, firm skin, just above the band of the handcuffs, and slices a clean, horizontal line on one arm. Just enough to sting.

But Dean doesn’t react the way he expects. “Huh,” his brother says tauntingly. “Guess that wasn’t as bad as I thought. Kinda relaxing actually.”

Sam whips back around to his front, furious at Dean for having played him. He’s just about to jam his knife somewhere it’ll _really_ hurt, when Carmichael speaks up from behind him.

“Relax, Sam,” he orders soothingly, pulling him back from the brink of his anger. “Let him posture. He’s not going anywhere.”

And Sam relaxes instantly. If Carmichael wants him to be calm, he will. He’ll prove how perfect and obedient he can be for his love. He’ll be the calmest anyone has ever been.

Dean shifts a little in his chair, probably nervous now that Sam won’t fall for any more of his tricks. “Hey, wait,” he says, twitching one of his shoulders. “Just wait one second.”

But Sam ignores him as he advances, coldly yanking down the zip of his fly. “Not letting you pull anything else, Dean,” he says, determination like steel in his voice.

“Oh, yeah?” his brother asks, strangely confident for a man about to be sliced up six ways to Sunday. “What about this one?”

Sam’s only got one second to be confused before Dean suddenly lurches up out of his seat and bodily tackles him. Sam can feel the wind get knocked out of him as his back slams against the thin carpeting and Dean plows all his weight onto his middle. He can’t breathe, but he’s still got the knife, and he slashes out wildly, trying to catch Dean anywhere he can.

“Sam!” Carmichael is shouting from behind him. “Stop him! _Kill_ him!”

Dean struggles to avoid his slashes, handcuffs dangling from his unmarred left wrist as he stiffly hits Sam’s right hand with the butt of his own and the knife goes flying out of both their grasps to skitter under the closest bed.

And with no sharp edges to worry about, Dean gets an arm around his throat and then his legs locked around Sam’s waist while he’s still scrabbling for air. He heaves with all his strength, grunting at the solid punches Sam manages to land to his ribs as he flips them both over.

“Sorry, kiddo,” he hears Dean mutter under his breath, just before violently clocking him in the back of his head with his elbow.

Pain rockets through his skull, stars spinning in his eyes, and Sam goes down hard. His head hitting the floor again sends another jolt of dizzy pain lancing through him and Sam has to blink dancing, colored squiggles out of his vision before he can focus on anything else.

Dean is already up when he gets his bearings once more, hotfooting out of the way of Sam’s frantic grabs at his ankles as he swipes up his makeshift baseball bat from his end table and advances on a pleading Carmichael.

 _“No!”_ Sam screams, clawing his way across the carpet. “No, don’t hurt him!”

Dean rears back for a heavy swing—perfect posture like a Joe DiMaggio baseball card—and then he cracks it straight down on Carmichael’s skull.

There’s a wet sound like a splitting watermelon, and then Carmichael’s eyes go glassy, and Sam feels the whammy get sucked right out of his body. Just like it did before, with the first siren. He’s suddenly _himself_ again, strewn out prone and absolutely mortified at everything that went down in the last couple hours.

Dean doesn’t stop though. He brings the bat down again, over and over, until the siren’s head gradually gives way and he’s just pounding wet meat into the carpet.

“Dean,” Sam calls out exhaustedly. “Dean, you can stop.”

And his brother finally does, getting one or two more good hits in before twisting around to acknowledge Sam. “Whaddya know?” Dean pants, striped with both Carmichael’s blood and his own, as he gestures to the body. “Guess we didn’t need a bronze knife after all.”

Sam tosses him weak smile at the joke. “He— _she_ ,” he corrects himself, shaking his head as the thrall completely dissipates, “she ambushed me in the records room. Knocked me out from behind. She must have poisoned me while I was still unconscious.”

Dean nods at his explanation, letting the bat slip from his fingers to leave yet another horrific stain on the carpet. “Are you…you?” he asks, breathing heavily in exertion and maybe not a small amount of fear.

“Yeah,” Sam says quietly.

“Jesus-fucking-Christ, kid,” he huffs, though there isn’t any malice in it.

Sam flinches anyway. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry, Sammy,” Dean says, his eyes going soft as he steps in closer.

Sam ignores the magnanimity as he pulls himself up to sitting. “I hurt you.”

“We’re even,” Dean points out, gesturing to the pounding in his head.

“No,” Sam says sadly, reaching up to prod at his own injury. It’s in the exact same place Carmichael had hit him earlier. His brother’s aim is freaking uncanny. “We’re really not.”

Dean lets out a sigh and absent-mindedly cracks his knuckles at his sides. “Dude, cool it with the guilt trip, okay? Last time we were under a siren spell we tried to kill each other. All you did was stab me in the nipple.” He brings a hand up to rub at his chest, like he’s just now remembering, and his palm comes away streaky with blood. Dean glances at it for a moment, then shrugs and wipes it on his jeans. “I’ve had worse from a bar fight.”

Sam relents with a slight smile. “Weird bar fight.”

Dean huffs out a laugh and finally kneels right in front of him, submitting to Sam looking him over. The injuries Sam had inflicted aren’t actually all that bad. There’s a largish bloodstain on his chest, but the wound has already mostly closed up by now, and the slice underneath his arm is a pretty clean cut, all things considered. Dean _is_ absolutely covered in blood, head to waist, but the majority of it isn’t his own. Even his hair is stained dark red in places, but Sam’s pretty sure that’s just from bits of flying siren. Sam carefully brushes his fingers over all Dean’s extremities and then down to his wrists. Where the blood from his shallow cut had dripped over the base of his hand, allowing him to slip free.

“Did you fucking _Br’er Rabbit_ me?” Sam asks in amusement.

Dean gives him a roguish click of his tongue. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Sam laughs at his brother’s apparently indomitable spirit and then stands up to head for his backpack, leaving Dean where he is as he scrounges around for their handcuff key. It doesn’t take long to find, and when he walks back, Dean is staring at him funny.

“You never told him we were brothers,” he says, a little smug.

“No, I…” He kneels back down to free his brother’s wrist. “I guess I didn’t.” Sam’s statement comes out more confused than he’d expected it to.

Dean doesn’t pull away, even as he’s unshackled. “Guess you didn’t love him _that_ much, then,” he gloats, gently tipping their foreheads together.

“Huh,” Sam says contemplatively.

There’s a short, companionable silence in which they just breathe together, soaking in the contact, but it must prove way too much for his brother because he eventually pulls back with a scoff. “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he adds, intentionally sounding like as much of an ass as he can. “You looked like a fucking idiot.”

“Gee,” Sam says flatly, “thanks, Dean.”

“Hanging all over the guy like some kinda desperate, lovesick loser.”

“Dean,” Sam warns.

“ _‘Oh, please’_ ,” he mimics, “ _‘act more like Dean’_.”

“Dude, stop.”

His brother does. Immediately. “Sorry,” he says sincerely. Then he catches Sam’s chin again, genuine regret reflected in his gorgeous fucking eyes. “Not your fault.”

Sam nods tightly, trying to remind himself it was probably just jealousy talking.

Dean gets back to his feet after another short moment, assured of his forgiveness, and gives the room a quick visual sweep. He thinks for a bit, then pulls out a sizeable wad of cash from his wallet and drops it on the table for the maid. _Yeah, like **that’s** gonna be enough_. They’ll take the corpse with them, of course, but the bloodstains are gonna be a gruesome surprise for whoever opens this door next. Although, maybe it’ll mean that they’ll have to paint over the trees. Sam can’t really consider that a loss.

He heaves himself back up to standing and does what he can to help his brother clean up. Quickly. Before anyone can come knocking on the door about the shouting. They get the weapons packed away square and Carmichael’s body rolled up in one of the comforters—ready for discreet transport to the trunk—and for the first time in the last four days, Sam is glad they didn’t pack much.

Dean gives the room one last once-over, nods approvingly at what he sees, and then gathers his stuff to actually leave. He slips his overshirt back on, the black fabric thankfully disguising some of the blood running down his arms, then makes for his bag.

“Ew, dude, don’t—” Sam pleads, the minute he realizes what his brother is going for.

But Dean ignores him, unzipping his duffel and pulling his gore-covered jacket back out. “What?” he asks, tossing the foul-smelling thing on over his shoulders. “It’s freezing out there and I didn’t pack any other coat.”

“Yeah, but I’m the one who’s gonna have to sit in the car with you for the entire drive home,” he complains.

“It’s just ghoul, Sammy.” He twists his neck around to examine the worst of the damage. “And wraith, I guess. A little bit.” Dean glances at him mischievously and then gets that stupid, familiar grin on his face. “Here,” he teases, “come show me how sorry you are about all that junk you said.”

And Sam knows that they’re basically gonna be rolling in decay no matter what, given that they still have to dispose of Carmichael, but something in him insists on holding fast. “No,” he says, “you’re gross.”

“You _stabbed_ me,” Dean says woundedly.

“Dude, you smell like a dead cat.”

“Don’t be such a pussy,” Dean tosses right back, grinning like an idiot at his own pun.

So Sam deliberately strolls away from his brother to heft the siren’s corpse into his arms instead. She currently smells better anyway.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

They’re finally back home, finally ready to relax, and Sam is _finally_ fantasizing about bodily shoving his brother under a shower when he gets another text from Mick. A violent campground attack in Sheridan County, Nebraska. Which will make this the fourth case they’ve worked in about as many days. And that’s not even counting the handful of prior hunts the Brits had pointed them toward in the last two weeks.

Another swell of regret flares up as Sam lies about it to his brother, _again_ , and sets them on yet another hunt without any rest. It’s not like Dean is bummed about it. Hell, he seems more stoked than anything else. But years of experience and heartache is telling Sam that he needs to admit the truth to Dean right-fucking-now. And years of experience and heartache is telling Sam that he needs to put off admitting the truth to Dean for as long as he possibly can.

At least he gets him to agree to bathe, one small mercy in this never ending guilt-trip of a week. Sam’s decided on moping for a bit—maybe shutting himself up in his room as he mentally flagellates himself for being such a crummy brother—but Dean tosses out a crack about stealing his fancy shampoo, and Sam knows it’s really an invitation for Sam to join him, and he also knows that Dean is telling the truth and will absolutely use all of it up just to be a dick, so he’s following his brother down to the shower bank before he can think twice about his earlier plans.

Dean’s already stripped down and dunking way too much shampoo on his head by the time Sam clears the door. The entire bathroom slowly begins to smell like sandalwood, bubbles disappearing into the steamy fog, and Sam mentally laments the waste of his secret luxury.

“How’d you even find it anyway?” he grumbles as he leans back against a sink and settles in to watch.

“Darlin’,” Dean says with a quick smile tossed over his shoulder, “you ain’t nearly half as sneaky as you think you are.”

Something twings painful in Sam’s chest.

Dean scrubs at his head until the water stops running pink (and a few more pieces of siren go tumbling down to disappear into the drain). Then, instead of putting the bottle back on the shelf like a considerate human being, he wastes a whole bunch more of it soaping up his underarms.

“Dude, c’mon,” Sam whines. But Dean just glances back at him to toss him an ill-boding wink. “No, you fucker. Don’t you dare put that on your dick.”

“You gonna stop me?”

Sam sheds his clothes as fast as he can, kicking his boots off back toward the door and almost slipping on one foot as he tosses his socks out of the way. He manages to duck under the spray and snatch the shampoo from his brother right before he completely uses all of it up, carefully twisting the cap back on as Dean cracks up laughing behind him.

“I’m buying more of this,” Sam gripes, peering at the mostly empty bottle. “And I’m gonna hide it better.”

Dean lets out a derisive snort. “Good luck with that.” He watches Sam gingerly place the shampoo back into its spot, then tilts the shower head directly at his face, drenching his hair and causing him to spit out a mouthful of warm water. Dean laughs under his breath at the sight. Then he finally shows a little mercy by turning it back on himself.

Sam glances over his shoulder to check how far the splash zone is extending. “You’re getting my clothes wet.”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re gonna have to wear the suits anyway.” Dean runs a hand over his face a couple times, like that’s gonna make any headway with the dried blood he’s absolutely coated in, and moves onto another area.

And Sam cannot take one more minute of Dean stinking up the car with the smell of rot. “Oh my god,” he says in exasperation, then grabs their current bar of soap from the wall indent and lathers his hands up as frothy as they’ll get before scrubbing at his brother’s face. _Thoroughly_. Dean just sniggers in amusement and goes immediately lax and smug under the attention.

“I can’t believe you,” Sam teases, swiping the heel of his hand along wet stubble. “You have to use a public bathroom and you bitch for hours, but here you are, absolutely covered in gore, and you couldn’t give less of a fuck.”

“Blood’s clean,” Dean explains with a simple shrug.

Sam is starting to worry about his brother’s general medical knowledge. “Blood is absolutely, one hundred percent _not_ clean,” he corrects, hunching down and looking him straight in the eyes to get his point across. “Plus, this is _monster_ blood, dude. That’s like, extra not clean.”

“Whatever, Sam.”

“I’m serious. Ghouls spend all their time in graves eating dead things. You’re probably gonna get necrotizing fasciitis.”

“Making up words doesn’t make you sound as smart as you think it does, sweetheart.”

“ _Flesh-eating bacteria_ , Dean,” he clarifies. His brother rolls his eyes, but snatches the soap out of his fingers to lather up his own torso. At least he’s helping now. “And sirens have poisonous saliva,” Sam can’t help but prod. “So who says their blood isn’t toxic too? Maybe you’ll get all goo-goo over Carmichael, but she’s already dead, so then what are you gonna do?”

Dean flashes him a knowing grin. “What, no unnecessary, overprotective old lady worry about the wraith blood?”

Sam bristles for a little bit, but forges ahead anyway, not wanting to disappoint. “We don’t know how wraiths are made. Maybe it’s like vamp rules and if you accidentally get any in your stupid mouth, you’ll turn into one too.”

“That’d be pretty cool, huh?” his brother says, examining his wrist as he twists it back and forth under the water. The wound was shallow. It’s not even bleeding anymore. “I’d have one of those badass spike things.”

“Gross, dude.”

But Dean continues to ignore him as he waxes idealistic about his future as a monster. “I bet I’d still be pretty into you too,” he purrs. Then he snakes out an arm, twining it around Sam’s waist and pulling him in tight. “You and that delicious, oversized brain of yours.”

“You are not being romantic,” Sam feels the need to point out, even as he isn’t trying all that hard to avoid Dean’s lips playfully trailing up his jawline. “You are being creepy.”

Dean switches trajectories, aiming for his mouth instead, and then Sam suddenly doesn’t have any interest in talking any more. Dean cups his hands around the sides of his neck, his thumbs sluicing through the water running over his skin, and Sam greedily opens his mouth to suck on his brother’s tongue—probably about the only clean body part he’s got right now. He wraps his own arms around Dean in turn, fingers digging just slightly into the wet muscle of his back, and fervently tries to ignore how he’s most likely getting leftover ghoul under his nails. He’s just about to move the party a little lower when Dean gently pushes him back a bit.

“Hey, Sam,” he says cautiously, still only an inch lingering between them. “About what that siren said earlier—”

Sam lets out a sigh of frustration. “Dean, she was a psychotic serial killer. Pretty sure that’s not the type of person whose opinion you should be getting hung up on.”

“No, I just mean…” He licks his lips and it takes Sam a second to focus again. “We’re good, right?”

A sudden flash of guilt spears its way through his guts and he desperately tries to shove back his dirty little secret about the British Men of Letters. _This isn’t the time—_ something cowardly in him insists. _This isn’t the right time yet._ So Sam nods instead, anxiously trying to get back to what they were doing. “Yeah, we’re good,” he says, tugging Dean back to his face. “We’re good, I swear.” Thankfully, his brother settles after a moment, moaning into his mouth and grazing his fingernails down Sam’s chest until he shivers. He’s finally relaxing into it again, just getting comfortable, when Dean suddenly makes a discontented noise and twists away from his mouth.

“I mean, you’re getting what you need?” he asks, brow furrowed in unnecessary concern. “With me?”

Sam huffs in amusement and leans forward, letting his lips rest against his brother’s forehead until the worry smooths back out. “Of course I am,” he says quietly.

Dean nods, letting out a breath and idly petting a hand over the back of Sam’s hair as the steaming water crashes softly around them. They don’t move for a minute or two. Then he nods again and leans forward to press his mouth against the base of his throat.

But it only takes another few heartbeats for Dean to pull back _again_ , infuriating as anything. “Are you sure, man?” he asks one more time. “Like, _really_ sure? ’Cause he was saying that I don’t talk to you enough.” He brushes a thumb over the arch of Sam’s eyebrow and his eyes go a little guilty. “Or touch you enough. I know I’m not good at that crap, but…”

Sam brings his own hand up to capture his brother’s fingers, and then takes a moment to contemplate how to answer honestly without saying anything that’ll be taken the wrong way. “You remember when that other siren infected you,” he asks carefully, “way back when?” Dean nods, wary, as he waits to see where he’s going with this. “And your perfect mate was like, basically me, except he had all the exact same interests as you and thought every single thing you did and said was awesome and wanted to hang out with you in strip clubs all the time? You planning on trading me in for that?”

Dean purses his lips up in pretend consideration and Sam shoves at him with a teasingly affronted, “ _Dude_.”

“Nah,” Dean says eventually, relieved of his earlier worry, but clearly still committed to the bit. “If I didn’t have you and your massive hard-on for research, I’d have to do all that shit myself.”

“Yeah, well that’s the only massive hard-on you’re gonna get if you keep acting like a jerk,” Sam promises and doesn’t mean at all.

Dean laughs out loud. Then he shifts away to run his face under the shower spray again. “How’s your head, bitch?” he asks through the water.

“I’ll take an aspirin. Or twelve. How’s your nipple?”

“Still attached,” Dean says warmly. Then he lifts up his right arm. “ _This_ is the one that really stings. Who fucking sticks a knife in a man’s armpit anyway?”

Sam steps forward and sinks down to his knees, wrapping his hands around his brother’s hips and gently pressing slow kisses up along his ribs until he reaches the edge of the cut and Dean shudders. “That’s why,” he says smugly. “Plus, it probably stings because you put shampoo on it, you moron.”

Dean ignores the jab, staring down at Sam with slowly waking lust in his eyes. “You look good down there,” he says. And it’s kind of a selfish, strings-attached compliment, but it sends a quiver of arousal up Sam’s spine anyway. Plus, he really _does_ owe Dean this after the day they’ve had.

“Think Sheridan County can wait?” he asks, letting his warm breath not-so-accidentally brush over Dean’s thickening cock. He glances coyly up at his brother when he doesn’t get a response, blinking the water out of his eyelashes.

Dean sucks in a shaky breath, looking like he’s been struck dumb for a second, and then lets it out again in a sound that isn’t quite loud enough to be a groan. “I think,” he says, deep and rough as he smooths the wet hair back from Sam’s forehead, “they’re gonna have to.”

They use up the rest of the shampoo.

They’re an hour late passing over the Nebraska border, flirting and grinning at each other like idiots the entire drive, but as Sam glances over at his brother—freshly showered and loose-limbed and smelling like expensive sandalwood—he knows it was worth every damn minute.

And it always will be.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Social Distortion's "Don't Take Me for Granted"


End file.
